More Than Words
by Numpty
Summary: The Winchesters don't do one-sided conversations. Set sometime during S2.


Just a few small scenes that wouldn't leave me alone.

As always, a massive thank you goes to my good friend Sharlot for waving her beta wand over this fic and for her much appreciated words of encouragement.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.

Summary: The Winchesters don't do one-sided conversations. Set sometime during S2.

o0o0o

**More Than Words**

"Sammy?" Dean Winchester leaned over his little brother's curled, prone form, eyes barely able to trace the outline of a few tousled tufts peeking out from beneath the squidgy, quilted cocoon Sam had taken refuge in over the past few days. "You awake in there?"

Sam had emerged every couple of hours or so, each time blinking owlishly over at Dean as if he'd just woken from winter hibernation. He'd stagger to the bathroom to answer nature's call, waving away his big brother's offer of help, and then after a worrying few minutes – during which Dean half expected to hear a colossal thud from behind the bathroom door – he'd stagger back out again and then burrow his way back underneath the quilt.

Silence followed Dean's faux-cheerful question for several seconds before the uppermost ridge of the mountainous bedcover twitched; so quickly Dean would have missed it if he'd blinked at the wrong moment...if his trained gaze hadn't been honed through years of learning to read the tiniest of signs, from the portentous gleam of a watering eye to the smallest hitch of a snagged breath. "Nice try, Sammy!" The elder Winchester chuckled with further feigned levity; he hated it when Sam was sick, whether light sniffle or scorching fever. "I know you're in there."

The mottled brown of the motel wallpaper seemed to greedily suck the light from the room, but Dean had no problem picking up the way his brother's chaotic hair seemed to tumble against the mangled pillow as Sam shifted his head. "I know, I know...you want me to take a hike and leave you to sleep, but it's time for another dose of Doctor Winchester's special med–" Dean broke off as a flap of bedcover flicked downwards, revealing Sam's less than impressed expression. It might have been a bitchface, if it hadn't also managed to work in varying shades of woebegone and kicked-puppy. There was a narrowing of his eyes as he peered up at Dean, making his silent inspection. Then he arched a brow.

"Dude, I don't swing that way!" The elder hunter rolled his eyes, going for affronted but not quite making it as his lips quirked cheekily. "'Sides, that only comes _after_ you buy me dinner!" He chuckled wickedly as the younger man scrunched his features in disgust.

Sam had been nursing a bad bout of bronchitis for several days, his condition steadily worsening from a delicate cough and snarky mood, to a simmering fever and ashen pallor. He'd lost his voice the previous day, any and all attempts at producing noise resulting in his lungs making a loud and messy attempt to evacuate his chest. So Dean had ordered him to keep quiet, grumbling that Sam's constant wheezing and hacking was putting him off his dinner, and because the kid looked so wispy the elder hunter feared his brother might just dissipate into the air.

They'd just come off a draining and dangerous hunt – like _that_ was anything out of the ordinary – puddling about in a waterlogged graveyard as curtains of rain drew across the landscape, shutting out the light and making the world feel claustrophobic and cramped. They'd also been tossed and flipped like pancakes as the not-quite-so-dearly-departed spirit of one Randall McCreery had appeared to make an impassioned defence of his earthly remains. Dean had amassed more than a small assortment of scrapes and bruises to add to his already comprehensive collection, including a 3 inch gash on his forearm that he hadn't bothered telling Sam about. In any case, the coolness in the air had _more_ than justified wearing long-sleeved shirts. The younger Winchester, though, had taken the brunt of the abuse, and had been drooping and sopping and groaning by the time they'd sent good old Randall on his way.

A couple of days later and Dean had known. He'd known from the dark looks and the waspish replies, oh yeah, and the phlegm all over the Impala's dashboard. Dean hadn't known whether to puke or to scold. In the end he'd dragged a petulant Sam to see a doctor. And had scrubbed the dashboard until it gleamed.

"C'mon, man..." Dean murmured, sobering as he held out some pills and turned to retrieve the glass of water he'd set on the nightstand. He held it encouragingly in front of Sam's downturned lips, gulping back a lump of concern as he caught sight of his brother's milky complexion. The younger Winchester turned his head away, looking nauseated.

Dean sighed heavily, watching as the air gently stirred the strands of hair on his brother's forehead. "That's what you said last time, dude, and you kept _that_ down." At Sam's continued refusal, he blew out another breath through his nose. "Sam just take 'em and then you can go back to sleep. Y'know I'm just gonna keep buggin' you until you do, right?"

When the younger Winchester finally relented, Dean felt his locked brows loosen a little. He supported the back of Sam's head as the younger man tried to lift his lips to the glass, murmuring gentle encouragements as his little brother took the medication. He could feel the clamminess of Sam's skin against his fingers, the way the younger hunter quivered and shook even under the warmth of the blanket. "That's it, man. Take it easy. You're good now, okay?"

He watched as Sam settled himself back against the pillow and began shimmying back down underneath the bedcovers. A fond smile graced Dean's features as he thought of the many, many times he'd stood guard like this, waiting for his brother to fall asleep. Nightmares and sickness and grief had had an unfortunate habit of keeping Sam awake over the years. Dean nodded to himself as he saw the kid still, the disturbed quilt smoothing out, the murky plaid pattern rising and falling minutely in time to the rhythm of the younger man's breathing.

Satisfied that Sam was as comfortable as he was going to get, Dean retrieved his jacket from the back of one of the room's chairs and shrugged it on. The thin material wouldn't offer much armour against the gauntlet of rain outside, but it was one the few surviving ones he had; beggars and choosers and all that. He reached for his car keys, the metallic jingle warming his heart as he thought of his pride and joy sitting faithfully outside.

He'd been about to turn towards the door when he felt eyes prodding at him.

Sam had pushed back the covers once more and was giving him an interrogatory look. Which was about as intimidating as a fluffed up kitten, the way Sam's brows were askew, the way his hair stuck out in all directions, each strand looking as if it was trying to escape the others. Panic flickered in the whites of the kid's eyes as his gaze noted both jacket and keys: signs of imminent departure.

"I'm just goin' on a supply run, Sammy. Relax!"

Sam's frowning, pockmarked forehead seemed to wipe clean at the reassurance and he allowed his head to fall back heavily against the pillow with a soft sigh.

Dean smiled an internal, affectionate smile and made to turn away again. But once more he was stopped as Sam's head came off the pillow, brows peaking purposefully as the younger man made his silent demand. "Yeah, man, I'll be back soon." Dean wanted to make a joke, to lighten the moment with something irreverent. But not when Sam was looking so friggin' small and fragile. And Dean was a big brother before he was anything else.

Sam blinked slowly, a gesture of relief that warmed Dean's heart even as the elder hunter rolled his eyes.

Dean watched as Sam's head began to droop forward and startled slightly as the younger man snapped his gaze back up again, a frail hand raising from the bed, finger pointing insistently forwards. Dean stared quizzically at him for a brief moment before the penny dropped.

Of course.

"Yeah, Sam, I'll get you some lemonade. I swear. Now go to sleep!"

o0o0o

It hadn't gone as planned.

That much Sam could work out as he prised his eyes open with a low groan.

If things _had_ gone his way, his head definitely wouldn't have been brrrrr-ing like a retro fire alarm, his hands wouldn't have been pulled uncomfortably behind his back and bound tightly at the wrists, his legs wouldn't have been extended in front of him, also bound at the ankles...And Dean wouldn't have been sitting opposite him, tied securely to a straight-backed wooden chair, mouth covered by a thick strip of silvery duct-tape.

No. That definitely hadn't been part of Sam's strategy.

Blinking as his vision shifted foggily in and out of focus, the younger Winchester surveyed the room they were being held in, realising that due to their captors' haste – and surprise, most likely – he hadn't been gagged like his brother. No, Sam had managed to catch them on the hop with his sudden appearance at the warehouse. And then they'd managed to catch _him_.

Grey, grimy walls formed their prison, mapped with pipework and punctuated every so often by bulbous boilers with quivering dials. It was hot, stiflingly so, and if the sweat that glistened on Dean's forehead was anything to go by, his big brother had been here a while.

Which Sam knew anyway, since he'd spent the better part of twenty-four hours frantically searching for him. But he didn't want to think about that; the painful, anxious seconds that had ticked by during Dean's unexplained absence. The terrifying what-ifs that had flashed before his eyes, each more gruesome than the last. No, he'd much rather focus on the overwhelming relief of seeing his big brother alive and – relatively – unharmed, even if their predicament was far from desirable.

The younger Winchester moaned again as each tiny movement of his eyes around the room sent stabbing pains rippling backwards through his skull. Back of the head. Why did they always have to aim for the back of the head? He could already feel a lump expanding there like an inflating balloon and winced at the thought.

Suddenly, two piercing eyes hooked his wandering attention and tugged it to a halt. Dean was frowning at him from the other side of the room, his brows shunting roughly together as he stared at Sam. The skin around his eyes was soft somehow though, betraying the deep concern he wasn't able to voice.

The younger Winchester heard the question as clearly as if Dean had spoken it aloud. He'd been translating Dean's gaze since he'd been old enough to realise that big brother's didn't always mean exactly what they said. From the "Dad'll be back soon, Sammy, you'll see!", to the "It's just a scratch, man. I'm good." The real message was always in Dean's eyes.

"I'm alright, Dean," Sam assured the elder hunter with an ill-advised nod that made his head spin nauseatingly. It was a wasted effort anyway; the older man merely narrowed his eyes sceptically in response.

Dean's interrogatory inspection had wakened Sam somewhat as he allowed his eyes to examine his brother's appearance more fully in turn. Bruises clustered around Dean's temple like gathering storm clouds, making the wan pallor of his skin seem even more stark. Sam's fists tightened angrily behind him. "Dude, you look like crap!" He blurted before common sense could slap a censoring hand across his mouth. Sam mentally berated himself as Dean rolled his eyes and looked away. "Yeah, I get it. You're fine too," he sighed, not believing it anymore than Dean had believed _him_.

The elder Winchester raised a brow and shrugged a shoulder, which was about as much movement as he was capable of, trussed up as he was.

"Right, yeah, of course. I must've forgotten about the whole 'invincible' part. I mean, that's how they got the drop on you in the first place, right?" Sam couldn't help letting out a bitter chuckle at the withering look Dean shot in his direction. A scathing glower that was quickly followed by a pointed jut of his chin. "Alright, alright!" Sam said placatingly, would have held out his palms in conciliation if they hadn't been chafing painfully behind him, restrained by prickly, scratchy hemp rope. "Pot. Kettle. I get it." He paused for a moment, letting the anger build within him like molten magma. "But dammit, Dean, couldn't you have friggin' waited for me? I had no idea where you were, dude!" He exploded, gritting his teeth as Dean blinked in surprise.

The elder hunter raised his fingers as far as he could from where his wrists were bound to the chair arms and shrugged, eyes crinkling cheekily.

"You were bored," Sam concluded with resigned exasperation. "Really, Dean? That's the best you got?"

Another shrug.

"You are unbelievable, you know that?" The younger Winchester pursed his lips in disapproval, nailing his brother with the classic bitchface that Dean always said made him look like he'd had something painful shoved up his ass.

Dean.

The elder hunter angled his head and raised his eyebrows, his cocky smile implicit. Sam just shook his head indulgently, his frustration beginning to evaporate in the face of his unfazed brother.

Sam grimaced self-deprecatingly as he looked around the room once more, shoulders slumping slightly. "Some rescue attempt, huh?"

Dean let out a soft puff of air through his nose and shook his head faintly. Agreeing. _Jerk!_

"Oh really? You know what? Bite me!" Sam tossed back indignantly, albeit with a reluctant smile.

The brothers stared at each other wordlessly for a few beats, amusement mingling with determination. Fears were acknowledged, assurances traded. Then they were good.

"So what are we going to do now, dude?" Sam bit his lip as he tested his position, shuffling around on the spot to see how much movement he had to play with. He was pleasantly surprised to find that they hadn't actually bound him _to_ anything. The pipe behind him would have been the ideal choice, but again Sam was banking on the fact that their somewhat amateur captors hadn't exactly been cold and calculating when they'd dumped him in here. The relative freedom was more than welcome, but Sam was wondering just how long it would take for the band of would-be drug smugglers to realise that not securing him more firmly had been a fundamental mistake.

Besides the one they'd made in taking Sam's brother in the first place of course, but that one was a given.

It seemed that their captors didn't quite know what to do with them. Hell, they'd kept Dean far longer than Sam had hoped. But sooner or later the men were going to come to the conclusion that they'd have to get rid of their unexpected prisoners. And there was a euphemism Sam wasn't keen to examine too deeply. The younger Winchester knew that the motley crew of petty criminals had already killed one poor sucker who'd been unlucky enough to stumble across their operation. George Laidlaw's mysterious death had been what had initially drawn the brothers to Billings, Montana. There had been an old, abandoned house and a ghost story to go along with it; in other words, their usual fare, if a little clichéd. They should have known it was a crock from the get-go.

Sam had ventured to a downtown library to do research, having told Dean to lose himself somewhere that he couldn't be an interminable distraction. He hadn't meant it literally of course, which he really ought to have told his idiotic brother before Dean had taken it upon himself to go and explore said haunted house. Alone. Without telling Sam. And, with that famed Winchester luck, had probably wandered right in on a drug deal in progress. Moron. When Sam had eventually realised where Dean had gone, and had arrived to find the house empty...Oh they were going to have words. It had taken Sam too many hours to figure out what had really been going on, and to eventually locate the gang's warehouse base of operations – all the while wondering if he'd even find his brother alive there. Oh yes, they were definitely going to have words. But not now. There would be time for berating Dean properly later, when they were both safely back at their motel room. When the thugs who'd held them prisoner were behind bars – preferably sporting a few bruises and broken bones.

When Sam glanced up from his reverie, Dean was staring meaningfully at him. They locked gazes for a long, significant moment before the older man slowly drew his eyes diagonally downwards until his pupils were focussed on the curve of his left knee.

"Huh?" Sam frowned, screwing up his features as he tried to decipher the gesture.

Dean snorted loudly in irritation and rolled his eyes with a grunt, bouncing his left knee as vigorously as he could. He sighed heavily through his nostrils as Sam continued to look blankly at him.

"Wha..._Oh_!" Sam exclaimed suddenly as he finally understood. He could have slapped a palm to his head at the simplicity of it, if he'd been able to.

He laboriously shuffled around until his back was to Dean and then began pushing himself backwards until he felt the jab of his brother's knee pressing between his shoulder blades. He bit his lip in concentration as he grabbed at the hem of his brother's pant leg, pulling impatiently at it until he felt his fingers close around the smooth, wooden object that was tucked into Dean's sock underneath.

It figured that the thugs wouldn't have properly disarmed Dean.

"Got it!" Sam muttered tightly as he eased the knife away from his brother's skin and turned it around in his hands, quickly starting to saw at his ropes. His progress was slow as his head throbbed distractingly.

He contorted his body in frustration as he tried to find the best position, feeling a sharp, scolding prod from Dean's knee in response. _Yeah, yeah, I get it. Stop squirming_, Sam rolled his eyes. "Quit it man, I'm almost there!"

He felt the rope around his wrists snap just as he heard footsteps approaching from outside the room. "Dammit," he hissed, swiftly bringing the small knife around to his ankles and hacking once more at his bindings. Again it took him far longer than it should have, fingers numbed from restricted circulation fumbling clumsily with the ropes. By the time the door swung inwards, he'd barely gotten himself free.

It was over very quickly.

When Sam had gotten caught a few hours earlier, the gang had converged on him at once, overwhelming him through sheer number alone. This time, the doorway meant that they came flying at him one at a time, flailing arms and bloodshot eyes a glaring clue that they were most likely under the influence of whatever narcotic they'd been stockpiling at the warehouse. A direct hit to the nose with the heel of his hand dropped the first man while an elbow to the gut followed by a right hook took down the second. The third was easily sidelined by a knee to the groin and an elbow to the temple. The fourth came in swinging, but was quickly put out of commission when Sam effortlessly ducked and then suckered him with a fist to his Adam's apple. The last man barrelled through the door with a yodelling war cry, and continued head-first into the opposite wall when Sam capitalised on his considerable momentum with a swift shove.

Breathing heavily, the younger Winchester put his hands on his hips and surveyed the carnage before him like the victor of an ancient battlefield. Bodies carpeted the concrete floor in various states of disrepair, many oozing blood and culturing bruises. Sam glanced at Dean, checking that none of the flying bodies had hit him on their way to the ground, and saw wide-eyed respect staring back at him.

Sam grinned in satisfaction and basked in the glow of his brother's praise. Looking at the defeated men once more, he racked his brains to think of something appropriately epic to say in the face of his triumph. His lips flapped redundantly as nothing obvious came to mind. After a long beat, he cleared his throat. "Uh...Winners don't use drugs," he announced emphatically.

All Dean had to do was raise his eyebrows.

Sam blinked, swallowed and glared.

"Shut up, Dean."

o0o0o

"So I'm gettin' the silent treatment, huh? Number one in the kindergarten rulebook of bein' pissy? Or maybe number one in the _chick_ rulebook of bein' pissy. Always said you were the girl of the family!" Dean glanced across at the farthest bed to gauge his brother's reaction, but if Sam had paid any attention to his outburst, he gave no outward sign. The younger Winchester was pouring over some geeky magazine he'd eagerly snapped up at the local grocery store the previous day. Apparently this particular publication wasn't one that cropped up very often in their average grocery run. Or so Sam had enthused then, before he'd started giving Dean the cold shoulder.

Dean sighed inwardly and wiped a hand across his mouth, frustrated. "Yeah, whatever dude. I got better things to do than _not_ talk to you," he muttered grumpily. Except he didn't. Not with the deluge currently under way outside their motel room. Not with the bad sprain that had made his ankle double in size after their hunt of the previous night. And definitely not with the pounding headache that seemed to vibrate through his whole body to the beat of his heart.

Sam seemed similarly sceptical about his big brother's chances, snorting softly as he noisily flicked over a page in his magazine. But otherwise, the silence continued.

"Bitch," Dean mumbled in response, and not affectionately. "The TV signal oughta be back on by now anyway," he announced more loudly, plastering a fake smile across his face. The electrical storm that had heralded their return to the motel the previous night had apparently rendered the television reception completely useless, to Dean's horror and Sam's spiteful amusement. In desperation, the elder hunter had taken to checking every half hour to see if it had been restored. He'd been out of luck each time. _Except this time_, Dean told himself as he reached for the remote and gingerly climbed onto his bed, wincing as his tender ankle caught on the edge of the mattress.

Noticing Sam's concerned glance out of the corner of his eye, Dean huffed out an exasperated breath. "It's nothin', Sam. I'm fine!"

The kid merely raised his eyebrows in dissatisfaction and returned his gaze to the page before him.

Okay, so maybe Sam did have a right to be a little pissed. But Dean had had his reasons for what he'd done the previous night. Not that his brother had understood them. He never did.

The elder Winchester pointed the remote at the television screen and waved it around in the air as if it was a magic wand. Which did nothing to change the fuzzy, swirling, buzzing pattern of grey that stared back at him. The signal was still down. "Great," he sighed, turning to Sam out of habit to wait for the expected teasing. But of course none was forthcoming. _This is gettin' old fast_, Dean grouched internally.

Frowning deeply even though the action quadrupled the pain in his head, Dean scanned the room, looking for something else to do. He could always have taken the Impala for a spin, but the roads were treacherous and seeing double was still too regular an occurrence for driving to have been anything other than suicide. Their laptop was out of action too, the storm having also put the kibosh on any internet signal. When his eyes landed on their weapons duffel though, they lit up delightedly. He was sure it had been ages since the guns had last had some TLC. Cleaning them up might even use up a couple of hours if he worked slowly.

Carefully he pushed himself up from the mattress, blinking as his vision hazed up for a brief moment, and limped over towards where the duffel sat next to the open bathroom doorway. When he reached it, he paused, biting his lip as he considered just how much of a challenge it was going to be to pick the damn thing up from the floor. He and sudden changes in altitude hadn't been on the best of terms since the concussion he'd gotten the previous night.

Dean had almost decided to just leave it alone and pass off his journey across the room as just a trip to the bathroom when the duffel was suddenly hefted off the floor and placed into his unprepared hands. He grunted slightly at the extra weight and looked up in surprise to find that Sam had already returned to his bed. "Uh, thanks," he murmured, feeling like a jerk. Maybe he _was_ being a little hard on the kid. If Sam had done what _he'd_ done the previous night, he'd probably have been just as mad. No, scratch that, he'd have been livid.

Sam lifted a shoulder in acknowledgement without looking in his direction, but Dean was sure he could feel the heat of his brother's attention as he made his slow way back across the carpet to the chipped wooden table that sat beside the room's small kitchenette. His little brother was a such mother hen even when he was being surly. He knew Sam was just itching to tell him to get back to bed, but the kid had also committed to his vow of silence. Dean wondered vaguely how long it would go on for.

Setting the duffel on the table top and lowering himself tentatively down onto the chair, Dean began emptying the bag, examining each weapon as he did so. He sighed, shoulders drooping as he realised that apart from the one or two they'd used the previous night, they were all frustratingly clean. Reluctantly concluding that he was in for an afternoon and evening of mind-numbing boredom unless he sorted this out, Dean relented. He heaved a sigh, grimacing slightly as the bruises on his back protested. "Alright, Sam. You wanna talk about last night? Let's talk about last night."

Tumbleweeds rolled by in the barren, cold silence that followed. Sam, apparently, was not going to take the bait.

"Look man, I get why you're pissed. I _do_. But hey, we got the job done."

Sam pursed his lips and flicked another page over.

"So I got a little banged up, dude. What we do has its risks, Sam. That's not exactly front page news."

This time he got more of a reaction. The magazine slapped down onto his lap as Sam turned his face away from Dean, his gaze focussed out of the window. Droplets of rain had turned the glass into a sheet of bubble wrap, and Dean silently popped them with his mind as he tried to think of something else to say. He imagined what it must have been like for his little brother, finding him unconscious at the bottom of the ravine like that. It hadn't been that deep, and he hadn't _meant_ to fall down there, but he'd been a little preoccupied by the creature snapping at his heels. One glance over his shoulder at the wrong moment and the ground had suddenly disappeared from beneath his feet.

He thought about how his brother must have felt as he'd carted him back to the Impala. The elder hunter had awoken in the car, a stone-faced Sam the first sight that had met his blurry eyes.

"It was comin' right at ya, Sammy," Dean tried again more softly this time, waiting with bated breath as the younger man's gaze swung around to meet his once more. But still the understanding that Dean had hoped to see was absent from Sam's eyes. Instead there was fierce dispute.

"Sam, I'm not tryin' to say you can't handle yourself. I'm _not_. But...I dunno, man. I saw it gunnin' for you and...I had to do somethin'." Something like throwing down his only weapon and yelling at the damn thing to come and get him. Yeah, something like that.

Sam's bitchface was clearly in agreement with Dean's internal chastisement. The elder hunter shook his head slightly even though the action made his stomach soar and swoop like a rollercoaster. Jeez, sometimes it was like the kid really could read his thoughts, psychic mojo aside.

But Dean stood by his actions, even if he understood why his brother was so angry. When he'd seen the enormous beast bearing down on Sam, stalactite fangs glinting dully in the moonlight, he'd just...well he'd just snapped. The gut-wrenching loss of their father just a couple of months ago had made him not want to wait those few vital seconds before he acted anymore. Those few vital seconds that might have resulted in him losing what was most important to him in the whole world. So he'd panicked and pre-empted them, making those few vital seconds his own rather than Sam's.

It had been reckless, and probably unnecessary. But it had been for Sam, the little brother he'd sworn to protect above all else even before his father had extracted _that_ promise on his deathbed.

Sam worried at his bottom lip, his features softening slightly as he locked eyes with the elder Winchester, but still he didn't speak. Dean was clearly going to have to work a lot harder. Then something subtle shifted in the depths of the younger man's gaze and Dean suddenly got it, what he needed to say.

He rubbed a hand across the growing stubble on his chin, inwardly cursing at the fact that even when the kid wasn't talking, he still had the ability to lure his big brother into the mushiest of chick flick traps. "Sam, I'm sorry. You're my kid brother, and I'm gonna be lookin' out for you no matter what...But I guess I wasn't thinkin' about what you might get left with. Bein' the one left behind sucks," he added, thinking of all the times he'd had to wait for an unconscious Sam to wake up. Thinking of all the times he'd been left alone. He didn't want that to happen to Sam. "I'll try to stay outta trouble from now on, okay?"

Sam, who'd been staring intently at Dean throughout his speech, delicately arched a brow at that last pledge.

"Well, mostly," Dean conceded, deflecting Sam's disapproving frown with a smirk.

He rose from his chair, the weaponry forgotten in the wake of the room's lightened atmosphere, and swayed dangerously on his bad leg, his heavy head feeling like a bowling ball atop his neck. The room seemed to gyrate like a bouncy castle and he felt himself begin to go down. Until hands firmly grasped at his biceps, holding him steady. Anchoring him.

Suddenly he felt indescribably tired; aches and pains and concussions and sprains making nuisances of themselves. "I'm really glad we had this talk, Sam," Dean slurred with a dopey half-smile, allowing himself to be led over to his bed and gently deposited on the mattress beneath a pulled-back quilt. Normally he'd have fought such a level of babying tooth and nail, but Sam was – kind of – speaking to him again and he didn't want to ruin it.

There was a pregnant pause, and Dean found himself wondering whether his course of silent treatment really had been completed after all, and then he heard his brother's voice above him as the bedcovers were settled somewhere just below his chin. It sounded like it had travelled down a long tunnel to reach his ears.

"Get some rest, Dean."

As his leaden lids began to drift closed, he almost missed the soft whisper.

"And it goes both ways...jerk."

Maybe Sam had understood after all.

But then, they'd never really needed words for the important stuff.

**The End**

_Thanks for reading!_**  
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